Resurrection of a Fallen Angel
by AResidentGhost
Summary: When science becomes too advanced for our own good, what will come of it when those that go beyond the laws turn to the bodies of the long dead for experiments? The result is unexpected, to say the least. Modern Day, Winged Erik. Possibly EC, EOW.
1. 1: A Childhood Never Gained

Why can't I die and stay dead? Why am I cursed with life after being dead for so long? Or are these memories just "racial" memories that are imprinted upon my genes and brought out by the twisted magic and manipulation of those scientists? Or could it be that when they "resurrected" my body, the soul that went with it was pulled back to life from the Great Dark? I was sure I was dying after Christine left me. In fact, I can quite clearly remember (although I am sure of the fact that it was true, but it had to have been so long ago that it is just a "racial memory") the moment my heart stilled and stopped beating, so surely I should be dead! Shouldn't I? I even placed the ad as promised—the ad that proclaimed, "_Erik et mort_." And yet I find myself alive again, with these strange memories that would make any sane person believe they are insane!

I know little of my origins or how I was created even, but I have been able to somewhat piece together the events which led up to my unique birth and life. Incredibly brilliant, even from a very early age, it was no hard task. I've escaped my "cage" several times over my previous fifteen years spent in that facility, and it was during these moments of self-gained freedom that I learned of my origins, albeit still with a few gaps here and there. I found I was the product, even though terribly flawed, of incredibly complex and sophisticated human genetic engineering. And although the scientists, who believed—and still do believe—that they are above the law, tried to bury and hide their evidence of their other experiments involving the same process, I found their forbidden knowledge. Their forbidden fruit, the files on the other experiments, was no problem to find and hack into for me. I was their first attempt, it seemed. Thus, my malformations and deformities that, despite the fact that they make me appear quite gruesome and _dead_, have not affected my _other_ differences, i.e., my adaptations towards flight.

One of the biggest mysteries of my life since my odd birth was, and still is, who my mother is. I would love to just even be able to talk to her—even if only over a phone. That would make my day or even my life. Just the chance to know my real mother, the donor of my human DNA and the egg I started as. Yes, though I am young, and never really formally taught, I know all about the reproductive cycle of _homo sapiens_, or as it is otherwise called, sex. Although no sex was really used for the creation of my life, I know they used a surrogate mother. I just don't know who she was, or whether it was even her egg to start with.


	2. 2: Escape

I awaken, once again, as I have for the past sixteen years in this hellhole, wishing to escape. Although one would think I would be used to it after all my years of life, but it still feels strange to have the heaviness, the weight of extra limbs, muscles, and feathers upon my new body especially in this small space. I am young, yet I am old in spirit, I do not know how that has come to be for sure, but I know it is true. So what is so different about this morning? I am not sure, but I have a feeling that everything I have waited for and craved, such as freedom and space to call my own, will come together today and I shall escape this hell. Or maybe they will let me leave… But why would they do that? I am such an _interesting_ specimen, almost too unique to ever let go of… Here comes the "retainers", my so-called "parents"—I can't help wondering if one of the nurses was my actual birth mother from the way she eyes me—come to deliver today's breakfast nourishment. "They" can't have me become starving or anything, although despite their best efforts, I seem not to put on much, if any, weight. And what weight I do put on is from _muscle_, and that muscle never seems to "fill" my frame out, as they would wish me to.

"Good morning, little angel," the young nurse says with a giggle. If I didn't know any better about my looks, I would think that that nurse is infatuated with me. But I know that has to be an impossibility, since I look like a dead thing from a long buried grave, with wings. I sigh deeply. How can I delude myself so much with such delusional thoughts? Perhaps I think these things to placate my disgust for my current situation, an escape from this bitter reality. I see the woman nurse that I seriously suspect could be my biological mother (or host mother, for despite looking very little like her or anyone I know, there is something about her that resonates with me) is with the group today. She winks. Is that some sort of signal that she will release me to the world outside today? Or is it that they just have something new and/or diabolical up their sleeves?

I wait until the caretakers leave before moving towards my source of daily nourishment. I feel rather embarrassed eating in view of other people, what with my thin lips. The food tastes odd today, almost as if the scientists had placed some chemical within. Are they trying to kill me now? Upon this unnerving thought, I spit the food out, but already some of the drug must have seeped into my bloodstream... I am feeling rather woozy and definitely disoriented. Some other sense, perhaps instinct, is rearing its wild head within my thoughts and neural synapses, driving me into an animalistic rage. My intellect takes a backseat, and I watch silently from the imaginary backseat as my body rages and fights against my captors. Acting on an innate instinct of self-preservation, I seize the opportunity to escape that has presented itself to my tormented brain. Snapping the lab assistants' necks in a blood-red haze of rage, I take advantage of the moment to escape from my cell. Knocking everybody who gets in my way out, I race through the corridors, some of which I've never been through or in, heading on pure instinct for the outside world. I break through the locked doors with the force of my momentum and sheer physical strength. Near exhaustion, but propelled onwards by animal fear, desperation, and the chance for freedom at last, I kept going, running towards the trees. I can hear the dogs barking, and their barking is growing nearer. One last available chance lies before me, and I grasp it as I retake control of my panicked mind. Though I have never had the chance to before, I must fly.

Stretching my raven-feathered wings as never before, I start to "swim" with my arms and wings in the air. I gradually gather speed, momentum, and lift. With great strokes of my powerful wings, I take to the air and out of reach of the vicious guard dogs and the lab's marksmen. There is a glow to the southwest, and having nowhere else to go to, I head towards the elusive light.

I am aware of being fully conscious, perhaps for the first time in my life. I do not know, but there is the distinct feeling of _awareness_ that I never really had before. Flying, I must say, certainly does wonders when it comes to clearing one's mind. I must choose my own life from now on, and so shall I choose the surname by which I shall address myself and conduct what business with regular humans I shall have: Daemon. I stand up off the ground and prepare to make the best of my current situation in which I have found myself. Of all the things of this new world I must adapt to, to learn, to accommodate myself with, the most important must certainly has to be the day and the year.


	3. 3: Encounter In The Street

The strange, odd-looking man that, for the past couple of hours has been hiding among the shadows between buildings and aching to fly high in the sky again, silently steps out of the cool darkness and into the sunlit sidewalk. Silently, and all too aware of his "new", strange features—most notably the fact that he has wings which, unknown to those around him, he has folded and pressed against his back along his spine, and no nose, he sneaks up behind a woman who appears to be "window shopping", peering intently at the marvelous and no doubt expensive, for even without the prices are not in view, they _are_ expensive-looking, jewelry. Silent as a ghost, he walks right up to her, and those who know her personally would proclaim his act as a miracle in itself. Her name, unbeknownst to the tall, odd appearing man, is Alexandra Deerchav, and although a woman, she prefers to be called by the nickname of Alex. No one questions this somewhat strange request in this day and age, but the resurrected "hybrid" is not familiar with the popular culture and customs of this century. This no doubt is partly caused by the seclusion forced upon him during his formative years while growing up before his escape from the facility. She, as of yet, still has no idea that someone is watching her or even who it might be. Slowly but surely she is gaining the sense that someone is there, right behind her. Yet she still jumps visibly when he finally gathers enough courage to reach out and touch her with his voice. A voice, she will later describe to her friends at work and at play as "rich as honey, impeccably smooth, and strangely commanding". A voice that, no matter how hard one might try, that person who hears it would be hard pressed to forget—even after years of not hearing him speak. His voice, he is all too aware of, is the one thing that could be considered beautiful about him, although many would argue, _if_ they saw them, that he has beautiful wings, and that it is a pity that most people would either be frightened of him because of those appendages or label him as a monster or freak. He fears showing people his actually quite beautiful wings because of fears like those, and he is not about to start now—especially not with a stranger, a stranger he is not even certain he can truly trust.

"_Mademoiselle, pouvez-vous m'aider?_ (Miss, can you help me?)"

His voice, she notes, is smooth and rich like honey, very enticing and enchanting to her ears. And she is not far from the truth, as the young man knows for a fact. He knows that, if used properly and specifically, his voice can be classified as a bona fide weapon. In fact, if he is not careful, she could surely become hypnotized by the stranger's well-practiced, well-modulated, melodious, and haunting voice. _Who is he?_ Alex thinks to herself. _Why is he wearing a hat, scarf, and cloak in this heat?_

The man thinks to himself, _Who is this woman? Why does she stare at me so? Is it my face? I thought I hid my visage well with this hat, scarf, and flesh-colored mask to cover my nose hole… Is it my eyes? Are they glowing again? Does she know who I am? Is she trustworthy?_


	4. 4: An Important Question

She is staring at me. Is it my face that is causing her to stare? Is it my clothes? I didn't think I would stand out too much or too bad if I wore these! Especially as whoever left me these for when I awoke from unconsciousness obviously intended me to wear them, otherwise what reason would there be to place these clothes beside me on the ground? I can feel my new body and muscles, muscles and bones created and designed for flying, my proof is in the fact that I have finally flown for the first time in my short life and that came naturally to me, are tense, and twitch nervously, perhaps even in anger, though I seriously doubt that, given the current circumstance in which I find myself. And I have learned in my short life to trust my body and its instincts, despite my high level of intelligence. Over the years it has got me out of tricky situations, and when I would ignore these strange instincts, I would often become hurt, in danger, or sick. Therefore, I quickly learned not to ignore those feelings and "hunches". Something about this woman is not quite right, but I can't explain why I feel this way. Maybe it is because she is staring at me, or even the way she is staring. I know my eyes are strange, they have been that way since birth and even before then—before I died the first time. Perhaps it is my eyes that are causing her to stare, and thus bothering me…

I guess I should clarify things a bit. Though my story may seem _full_ of magic and sorcery, it is not—the first part and others few and far between can be said to be full of magic. Actually, my story, if you could call it that, is what you might call one of those "miracles of modern science" everybody loves to talk and argue about. Except that what they did to "create" me is not currently accepted as fact, safe, or _legal_. Some renegade scientists got ahold of an old, special skeleton, and by some technique unknown to me (or most of the rest of the world outside the renegade's circles) retrieved the DNA of him who called himself Erik. They took these genes of that man mixed them with avian DNA, tinkered with the original DNA to make it receptive to the avian genes, and grew me, so to speak. Because when they saw the "experiment" was viable, they implanted the embryo in a willing "host" mother who knew nothing of what was growing within her—my new body. Long story short, _they_ created me, were keeping me until recently, and testing me to see how I developed some years later, even though to them, I was a "failure". On what I suppose would be my sixteenth birthday, they "dumped" me out in their woods to either live or die—their ultimate experiment on me. I would probably have starved to death or died if there was not that tantalizing, unspoken prize of my escape and freedom, the ultimate prize, the ultimate reward silently promised if I survived and for all the hell they put me through.

My strange hunger grows, a hunger for food—as much as I can eat, could I be doomed to grow even more? Also, a strange sense I never knew I had awakens and strengthens. This sense, almost like built in navigation system or radar, is something quite like an innate sense of direction, survival, and a connection to the world around me along with people's emotions and attitudes. I can pass off as a man at times, but with my extraordinary height, yet at the same time so very thin and lightweight, it is often hard to blend in, I have found—mostly the hard way. Although this body is mainly created science, there _was_ some magic involved—magic of a dark sort, and of which the scientists had no idea was taking place, for the magic was in the procedures, methods, and materials. Crowley, I have heard, was proud of that contribution to the marvels of modern science. Thus my seeing that strange, spectral figure on my day of escape, among the other times I have spotted him here and there—that time that I saw him after rising from the pits of unconsciousness was the first time I fully saw it in all its deathly glory instead of just a glimpse out of the corner of my eyes.

The woman opens and closes her mouth as if unsure of what she should do or if she should even stay. Who could blame her? I certainly wouldn't, as I know exactly and painfully how I look. I speak up: "Do I frighten you, _mademoiselle_?" I can feel the odd pull and twist of a sneer form on my thin, malformed lips. I am glad for the scarf, now, for it most certainly would not be a pretty sight.

"Who are you?" The unnerved woman quietly stammers. Why should I tell her, a complete and utterly total stranger who may actually be an enemy _instead_ of just a passing stranger on the street, so to speak. Can I really and truly trust her with such a private and well-guarded secret such as my name? Especially since if someone knows my name, they could use it for blackmail or even to capture me.

"Who I am is not important. Neither to you nor to the passing stranger walking by, minding their own business. However, _mademoiselle_, I have one question to ask of you—and if you answer it well and truly, and I find your character to be of a trustworthy nature, I will answer your question. Now, this is the question, which I feel, I must ask, 'What year is it that we are living in?' It may sound stupid, but I will tell you why I ask this of you: I have been hidden from the world for a very long time, and any knowledge I have, I have taught myself," I respond.

"Umm… Are you crazy or something? Because if you are, just forget I said anything," she sputters. I know I am inherently "unbalanced"—one _could_ say that, given my ancestry—especially given the materials _they_ worked with to create me, their "success" yet also their "failure".

"I assure you, _mademoiselle_," I purr in her ear---without coming any nearer, for I can sense her terror for some reason or another. What a useful skill (and talent) that is—that art which is called ventriloquism and mimicry. She sighs, giving in to the calming influence of my perfectly modulated voice.

"The year is 2007, if you must know. How exactly is it that you do not know what year it is? Even the most absent-minded of the people in most western countries know what year it is. I'm not saying you _have_ to tell me, I'm just curious, after all. Oh, and you need not call me '_mademoiselle'_, sir, we are not in France, there is no need for such formalities, _and_ I prefer to be called 'Alex'."

_Hmm…_ "Alex"… Who in their right mind would give a female child a boy's name? I admit I do not know much of the outside world where I find myself now. I, like many other _normal_ people had no choice in the matter, however _I_ chose the name that makes up what I consider to by my surname—a more fitting one could not be had.


	5. 5: Demands

Alex must have seen something in my strange eyes, I am sure of this idea. It was, in fact, probably a glimmer of hope, a bit of fear, or possibly even a look of despair that showed in my shadowed yet expressive, "glowing" amber eyes.

"Who _are_ you, really7?" The woman I now know to be called Alex ventures—or, you could say, _commands_ me, which would be closer to the truth. I eye her warily. Who does she think she is? All I wanted was to learn the year and then hopefully leave without anyone becoming any more suspicious of me than they might already be or at the very least, my face and appearance. I start to back away from the woman named Alex, who, despite being named now, is still very much a stranger to me. I move back to the welcoming shadows—or at least I try to. The wretched woman reaches over and grabs my rail-thin arm, and I can visibly see her react in absolute shock and horror at the feel of my "fleshless" arm. I grimace, which of course neither she nor anyone else can see thanks to the scarf I am wearing, and my "lips" tighten almost imperceptibly.

"I am no one," I remind her with a barely veiled tinge of threat and danger. She seems not to get my veiled threat. Ah well, we'll just see how far she dares to go—and if she survives the reaction that will undoubtedly occur if she keeps pushing.

"I am not letting go of you so easily," she growls for reasons that are unclear to me. She looks me straight in my admittedly strange eyes. "Now," she continues. "_I_ asked _you_ a question. Who are _you_? What is your _name_, mister? Answer me!"

"What are you, a troll? I see no bridge around…" I spit. "If you let me _go_, however, _and_ leave me _alone_, I _may_ tell you. If you promise to leave me alone, let me leave, and forget my name and face, I might tell you my name." I send a glare at her quite strongly, yet silently warning her about the price of disobeying any request I may make or have made.

Her eyes narrow. "No, stranger. You will run off, possibly to the shadows, without even a single answer for me and my curious mind."

"And why should I care whether you know or not?"

"Because I am an insatiable cat and I don't care if I get killed or not because I want to know! So I will not let you go. Now what is your given name?"

"And my answer is thus: Jack Kingly. Satisfied?" I have lied, but I am not terribly upset by this fact. Hey, whatever it takes to keep myself alive and out of danger, I'll do it, no questions asked.

"Yes, I suppose I am satisfied—after all, that is what I wanted to know," she sighs and looks crestfallen. Maybe she was expecting my real name (but how would she know such a thing, such a closely guarded secret?) or some other strange and exotic moniker. "You can go. Sorry to bother you, Mr. Kingly."

She lets go of my arm, and as she walks off into the multitudinous crowd, I do the exact opposite—I melt back into the shadows again. _I shall have to keep an eye on her, along with other people in this city. Someone may become suspicious of my behavior, and it can be said that someone already has… and I barely escaped getting caught and exposed at that! I have no ID, no real money (no problem about that, though, I have proven myself so far to be an extremely talented and gifted pickpocket/thief), no birth certificate, and I am underage (and should be in school, but who would want me attending their academy?) with no guardians, so if I did get caught, I would most certainly be in definite trouble, no doubt about that! _I watch the people pass by without any idea that I am there, in the shadows. I grin, knowing that my luck, no doubt, is about to change once again, for the better.


	6. 6: Capture

I have been secretly following the woman named Alex—strange name for a female, in my opinion—for the past two weeks, watching what she does, where she goes, and how she does things, all in an attempt to learn more about the world and to eventually try to fit in society which I highly doubt will ever happen. An innate sense of stealth along with the extremely light density of my frame gives rise to a hardwired silent tread and therefore stealth. The woman does not even realize the fact I _am_ following her. Why am I doing this? This very question keeps running through my mind. I could easily become caught and who knows what would happen to me? The only answer I have to that, I believe, is my ineffable sense of curiosity. Damn my curiosity to hell! It is definitely going to get me killed or at least in trouble someday, if not soon or now. I still know little of this world, and all my senses demand to know its secrets. I have already learned where _Mademoiselle_ Alex lives, having followed her to her home—an apartment, like many people have—a few days ago. This has gone rather smoothly—until now…

Unpredictably, she turns around and manages to "bang" into me. Damn it all for following her so close! Not only could this happen, but it could have become perfectly obvious to anyone present or casually observing that I was stalking her! Her eyes go wide in shock.

"You!" She exclaims while her eyes narrow once again, probably in anger this time. How could she remember me? I am not wearing the same thing anymore or wearing quite so visible a mask. "What are you doing here, Mr. Kingly?"

"Umm… Nothing… Nothing of any importance. Just window-shopping…" _Good Lord, Erik,_ I think to myself. _Why the hell did I just say that? There is no store, much less a store window!_ I cringe inside at myself-debasing insults I pour upon myself.

"Hmm…" She mutters. "_You_ are _obviously_ confused about something or another. Or else you're caught up in something way above your head."

Once again she reaches out and grabs my arm as I turn to leave. Out of the corner of my eye I see that strange, dark spirit from the day I escaped. What is it? Is it am omen of ill will? Am I to die now, even after this sweet taste of freedom in my short life so far?

"Oh no, Mr. Kingly, you are _not_ getting away this time. Frankly, and to be honest, I am not a defenseless little woman, if that's what you're thinking. I'm with both the local police and the FBI, I am a freelance detective, sir, and I _have_ noticed you following me on several occasions, Jack Kingly. Or is that even your real name? Perhaps you'd come with me to my office, don't you think? Have a cup of coffee or two, a little food—it'll be my treat, and rest your feet perhaps?"

My muscles for flight tense and twitch, anxious and eager for flight once again. I don't know if she can feel it in my bone-thin arms or not, but my whole body tenses and my heart starts to race, well, it's more like pounding now. I realize I have no choice but to listen to this misleading woman and, though I am _extremely_ reluctant, to obey her every whim. After all, I _am_ only sixteen years of age, although I am taller than most adults who are older than me.


	7. 7: A Death To Make It Nice

She has brought me against my will to a room, which, although it could be said to be not exactly small, it is, in fact, no larger than my "cell" in which I was chained for most of my life. For normal people, you could say that it was simply on the smaller side, but when one adds in my always incredibly tall height for my age _and_ my other obvious oddity, my _wings_, the "room" which is not much larger than a small walk-in closet, quickly becomes claustrophobic and cramped. The scientists, whether out of an attempt to hide the truth from me, make it seem much more pleasant than it was, or confuse me, insisted on claiming that it was simply my "bedroom", even though I was very rarely let out and spent most of my time there in shackles and chains. Yes, chains. I was their little pet, their experiment that didn't quite turn out they way they expected. In their eyes, I was a failure, yet too valuable to "put to sleep". However, I knew I was more than just a "failure". I was alive, and I would die by my own hand, under the awesome prospect of freedom from their chains and needles. The room she has brought me to seems to be her office, as there are the usual aspects of the commonly held view of workspaces: a telephone, many pens, a stapler, an older computer model, an old mug of stale coffee—I could tell it was stale by the smell—even though I have no real nose to speak of—in the corner of massive desk, and a rolling chair that can barely move in all the junk. On top of all that, aggravating my current claustrophobia, the office is piled high with stacks of papers and books, files and folders, and other assorted and most likely unnamable junk! What does this lady want with me?

I wonder if she has suspected that I am wearing a mask that I "lifted" from theatrical supply store when I came to the city? It is not that obvious, for it would take a very good eye too spot the line, or at least that is what I think and hope to be the truth. For the truth is, I have no idea if other people can spot the line like I can, because most people do not have eyesight like mine. I have eyes like a cat—or an owl—for I can see very well in the dark with little to no light and can see the tiniest movement from miles in the air or miles away, provided the line of sight is clear and the conditions right. This new prosthetic, for indeed that is what it is in its most basic sense, is slightly more realistic looking in appearance, especially form a distance, but it still does not make me look entirely human or handsome. I'm still very ugly with this mask, but at least I do not look like a living corpse or zombie fresh from the grave on Halloween or off the set of _Night of the Living Dead_.

"I know," she starts as she seats herself in her leather rolling chair that has nowhere to roll to, and is therefore rendered practically useless. "I know that your name is not Jack Kingly. Being a sort of '_free agent'_, I have contacts within the NYPD and the FBI, CIA, and other governmental bureaus; this unique position has brought into contact with certain _people_ who have been looking for a certain _person_—namely you, I believe. Now I am almost quite certain that you _are_ said subject of interest."

I shift in my seat, suddenly more terrified and uncomfortable than I was before or have been in my life. And I have been by no means comfortable since she grabbed me by my arm and would not let go. In fact, I could truthfully say that I'd much rather be anywhere else but here right now. A deep-rooted sense of being trapped, exploited, and exhibited settles in my anxious flesh and bones, settling deep thoughts and throat.

"Now, will you tell me your _real_ name? Tell me what I want to know and everything will be taken care of. If you don't," she warns with a motion across her neck that is almost universally thought to mean death or elimination. "If you don't cooperate, I'll be forced to hand you over to the authorities."

I refuse to speak, since I know that if I do speak and give anything away I will die without a doubt from either her "contacts" or going back to that lab to be experimented on again. Instead, I just glare at the woman. Yes, I know, this is also very immature behavior, but what do you expect from someone who was never loved, never really cared for, challenged during their formative years, and whose every instinct tells them to keep quiet in order to stay alive? But she does not react to my silence. Is it possible she has experience with children or teenagers? Does she have children herself? Or does she simply know more about me than I think she does? The walls seem to be closing in on me, pushing me past my limits, nearly causing a nervous breakdown.

Quietly I begin, "I am sorry I was following you, _mademoiselle_. I hope that is the reason I am in _trouble_ and not because of _why_ I think I am here…"

"While the stalking behavior was unnerving, at the least, it is not the reason I could not let you leave this time," she intones darkly. My anxiety and anger levels, one would say by this time, are through the metaphorical roof.

"_They_ want you back, child."

"How did you know I am not an adult in terms of the human law? _Tell me or you will rue the day you thought to entrap and return me to that hellhole!_"

"Your name, _boy_, is Angel, _correct?_"

I glare at her. No one calls me such an atrocious lie and lives to see the light of another day… "_No, perra, no es mi nombre._ (No, bitch, it is not my name.) I will _never_ allow myself to be degraded by _that_ name! _My name, you ought to know, came with my soul—not the passing whim of a bored scientist! The world knows me and my face as Erik, and Erik I shall be!_"

Without a second thought, my long and slender hands found themselves wrapped in a steely grip around her pretty white throat. I run out the door, leaving her cooling corpse behind, and race to the roof, no longer trusting anyone on the streets or in the building with very good reason—they may be working for the _enemy_. With a great leap, I unfurl my dark, almost ebony wings and take flight again. _This time I will not be caught,_ I think to myself. Soaring over the mountains of the roofs of buildings, valleys of alleyways, and gaping canyons of streets, I make my way to the theatre district.

Anna had just signed a contract with the theater—something she would readily admit, if asked, that she had never expected to actually happen. She truly had never expected to be actually hired right out of the university! Sure she hoped, but it almost never happened. She could scarcely believe it herself if she did not sign the contract herself! Of course she _knew_ there would be the theatrical equivalent of the classic "meet and greet". She would also have to find her niche in the theater and the pecking order of the temperamental actresses. She always hoped she would land a leading role, but knew she would be satisfied with any role within the theatre she could get or do. Ah! The thrill of participation!

I watch as the petite blonde walks backstage to catch up with the rest of the cast and crew. Pretty thing, she is, far out of my league—if there ever was or is anybody else like me. So far no one has noticed my presence in this theatre—helped in part by my instinctive need to stay in the shadows, surely a remnant of a previous life… balanced precariously on a narrow steel beam, I crouch and smell the air. For though I have no nose to speak of—I learned this through inquisitive touching and cemented into fact the hard way, through an unfeeling mirror—I still heave an incredible sense of smell. A soft, sweet scent, as that of old roses, mixed with ubiquitous dust that is to be found in any theatre backstage that's worth its money.

I stand up, or rather _unfurl_ my form, from my crouch. I feel, somehow, strangely at home and at peace here in the theatre. Strange, as I know that if I am _found_, I would most certainly not be "safe" in the least. Like a cat on a fence, steady, agile, and well balanced, I walk along the beam, following the girl from my spot in the shadows, well hidden to prying eyes.


	8. 8: Loneliness

This building is surprisingly quiet at night, after the show's are over and everyone's left except for those guards on night duty. Those remaining provide little distraction to nighttime visitors and "invisible" tenants such as I am. This silence provides me with much needed peace, space, and time to think without interruption. Of course, that is provided said night watchmen never catch me.

I have been using this time at night and early morning to add my own secret entrances, exits, trapdoors, and passageways; turning this old theatre into my own playground and my singular domain where if things do not meet my approval, there shall be _accidents_… I have also been building a hideaway of sorts; a place one could sort of call a hidden home until I have the means to move into my own building. I have, on good word, that should I run into danger before then, that there is a building nearby that I can retreat to; a building few are ever invited into, full of secrets and mysteries, and where one single invitation to enter is worth ten times it's weight in gold. This is a rescue and hideaway of sorts for certain people and…_creatures_…that is one a very few safe houses here in America. In these "houses" the American government does not exist, and those offered refuge are well taken care of. To the public, it is just another, although somewhat exclusive, company that is powerful because of its elite "clients". These people are well versed in magic and science, mythology and history, and other arcane and eldritch subjects.

Tonight is one of those nights where even I find the quiet is both overpowering and smothering in its absoluteness. It is on nights like this that I even find myself facing that damnable feeling that strikes all sooner or later and some more than others—the feeling known as loneliness. Normally I do not feel such as I grew up in practically total isolation in captivity with nothing and no one to talk to or share my feelings with. From this forced solitude came a much stronger spirit, molded and forged by the flames of struggle and confusion, and hardened by the icy waters of depravation and isolation, came about to rise within me and my soul to staunch the pain and heartbreak of my solitude and ensuing loneliness. In other words, by sheer will and need to live, my spirit became stronger and more distant from those around me, even as it is today, in the here and now. But alas, despite all the inhumanity present within my body and spirit, I still have those all-too human emotions despite their suppression by my strong will and mind.

I am drawn to the soft babble of the night watchman's portable television in an effort to dispel this hollow ache within what I thought was my ice-cold heart and soul. He is gone again, perhaps just to the bathroom, perhaps going on rounds again, in which case I need to be all the more careful to not be caught in sight or earshot. Already there are _rumors_ of a specter with a skull for a head that lives in the shadows. I grin beneath the black velvet mask made from scraps of cloth pilfered from the costume department. _They have no idea how close to the truth they actually are,_ I muse. _But what one doesn't know can't hurt oneself, can it?_ I chuckle softly. No, for them, the truth could be quite deadly…

Anna had once again forgotten her work clothes, and she knows that she needs them for her other job at the café tomorrow morning. The last place she had them with her that she could remember, seeing as she had come straight from work this morning, was at the theatre. Having called ahead to warn Larry, the night watchman, as soon as she arrived she was let in right away.

"What you doin' out so late, miss?" Asks the ever-friendly guard. Above them a black shadow within the darkness, somehow darker and deeper than the black surrounding shadows, follows their every move.

"My absent-mindedness, as usual," she returns with a laugh.


	9. 9: Mixed Emotions

I drop silently to the floor of the hallway far ahead of the guard and the angel. I slip silently into the dressing room she had used yesterday. It would not do if the little helpful angel cannot find her clothes! They might blame the recently arrived Ghost! Or a sick intruder… Either way, it would not bode well for me at all. And as I am still settling down and into this theatre's space, as well as becoming more and more knowledgeable of living in the city, I do not wish to have to leave again for a long while. I already have a safe house, a reserve, a secondary living space outside this building in case I need to hide from anyone who might think to search this theatre or just plain search for my living and hiding space.

I take a deep breath through my "nose hole" as I term it, for where normally there would be an "appendage" there is but a great black hole, and sort out the many tangled smells of the different people. That soft, sweet scent of _hers_ graces the bouquet of scents left in this dusty room. I follow the "scent trail" to the back of the room where there is a multitude of dirty and dusty clothes that makes my eyes want to water with the dust. Among them is a plain sort of uniform with some fancy trim and cheerful colors. With my little experience with workplaces and the workforce or job, I cannot tell exactly what type of job the girl works in or at. I gather the clothes in arms and bring them to a chair near the door to the hallway. Unintentionally I see a nametag. Curious, I cautiously read the name printed in black letters: Anna Dalí. I let the name roll around my head for a little bit and experiment with its taste upon my suddenly starving tongue.

I am broken from my reverie by the sound of approaching footsteps. Quiet as a church mouse and visible only as a black shadow among even blacker shadows, I slip out the door and leap into the air. My flight muscles know exactly what comes next and eagerly respond. Without a sound I spread my wings and silently gain altitude within the crowded hallway to fly to my ultimate goal: the rafters. Only a slight tap and a rustle of feathers as I automatically fold back my wings out of sight betray my landing and therefore my presence. However, I know the sound to be too slight for human ears unaided to hear, especially down on the floor below.

I hear the door below me open and I hesitantly look down. I hesitate not because of a fear of heights, after all, who ever heard of an _angel_ being afraid of heights, but because of the chance of my glowing amber eyes being seen or being mistaken for fire. The homely night guard and the angel born in flesh pass under my scrutinizing gaze of my eyes. Luckily, they are totally unaware of my presence, as it should be, in order to preserve their current precious health. This makes me happy, yet at the same time disappointed, that they have no inkling of my existence. Listening closely, I can make out their muffled conversation.

"There you go, miss," I hear Larry, the guard, state.

"Thanks for helping me out of a tough spot, sir," the angel admits. She lets out a gasp of surprise and I am immediately worried that I have been discovered. But it is not to be today, and I breathe a sigh of relief as she lets out a relieved giggle and continues speaking. "Ah, here they are! I must have a guardian angel looking out for me, I guess. Larry, what do you think?"

He replies in a jovial, but a mocking, tone: "Either that or a rather friendly spirit. Or they might even be just a friendly stranger or co-worker looking after you. Whatever it is, you should be happy. Not many people today like to look out for others, much less help them like that—especially anonymously and if they will get nothing out of it."

The door below me opens again and they exit the dressing room. I silently follow their progress as they walk back to the side door. My mind is in an uproar, filled with new and strange feelings and ideas. These emotions—I have no real idea what they could be classified as, for I have never felt anything like them before—what _are_ they called? What do they mean? Why am I feeling this? All these questions and more assault and crowd around my mind.


	10. 10: Hunger Is Not A Good Ally

It would not be safe for me, I have realized, if I continue this foolishness with that girl. This feeling I have for the little angel could practically kill me if discovered, or, worse yet, I could then be sent to jail or another scientist's lab to be dissected, tested, and experimented upon once again. I am not human, although one could say I am partly human, but the fact of the matter is that my genes simply don't allow that possibility to be described of me. I would only cause her pain, I must constantly remind myself, and I would never be able to live with myself after the fact if I ever did cause the earth-bound angel any harm—emotional, mental, or physical. My heart breaks with sorrow, as the knowledge of the one hope for a cure for my perpetual loneliness can never be attained. But such is the way of life, or as the French said back home, "_C'est la vie._" My life, no doubt, is doomed to be solitary. I must, then, teach myself to suppress such fanciful feelings, longings, and unneeded, unwanted, and dangerous emotions such as love, lust, and desire.

I am currently holed up, as they say, in one of my hidden cubbyholes, waiting for my jangled nerves to settle, to allow my body some much-needed rest. And why, you might ask, are my nerves so edgy currently? A very good reason is behind it, and I shall tell you what that reason is—eventually, especially if you will not spread it around as gossip or report me to the police. The reason for it happened today—for today I was almost caught red-handed, as the Americans say, in my wanderings of this theatre.

I was hungry, a rarity for me, I know, but there are times when my body _does_ need food, and this was one of those rare times where my hunger is altogether too overpowering and persuasive. Normally, I would have waited for nightfall, after everyone had left or disguised myself as a performer and left by one of the stage doors and returned the same way, after making sure that no one would remember me being there, but, as I said before, my hunger was too powerful and persuasive. So, finding that I could not control or ignore my bodily needs much longer, I went on a so-called "quest" for some food that would not be missed by anybody. However, seeing as it was near the middle of the day, and with all those around hungry themselves, I should have known better than to try to find some bit of unneeded food in the theatre. Therefore, due to my "angry" stomach that kept reminding me of its hunger, I was not quite so attuned to my surroundings as I usually am. The point is that I was—and this is unusual in itself—clumsy and not very careful about leaving no uncontrolled trace of my presence in my "quest" for food. Of course, being the time that it was—around noon, lunchtime for most people—there turned out to be no food in what the actors, I have learned, call the "green room", and on my way out, a security officer caught a brief glimpse of me as I left the room. Luckily for me, he just thought I was either an eccentric young actor, a method actor, or had just come from a rehearsal-the playhouse was preparing to put on a modern, updated version or Shakespeare's _Othello_, written by a young up-and-coming playwright who, according to what I have read and learned of him, is currently all the rage in the dramatic circles and theatrical societies, including many prominent theatre critics. That is a relief for me, if that is true, not to mention a very good thing that will, no doubt, in the end save me a lot of trouble. However, I was still very, very hungry. So, I returned to one of my many hiding-holes, which I have taken to calling "nests", exchanged my black silk mask for one of my original flesh-colored masks that I had been using in public before arriving and settling in this theatre. I've had these for a _very_ long time, going all the way back to when I _first_ fled my _prison_ back in rural France, and I acquired out of necessity in order to attain a semblance of normalcy to escape their "hunters" who eventually tracked me down again and returned me to my _prison_. However, they did not "relieve" me of my disguises, but merely locked me up once again and tortured me some more. So, when they "abandoned" me to die in the forest, I had a viable chance of actually escaping, as they didn't figure I would live. I was able, with the help of my flesh-like mask and their semblance of normalcy to hide for a while in ancient Brittany, a land that called out to my very bones, at least until I once again had to flee—for they had somehow figured out that I survived—to where I am now, in what the Americans call "the Big Apple", New York City.

My hunger, by then, was overpowering my gracefulness and other senses, and not to mention, quite irritable, like most New Yorkers. Discarding my cloak, under which I hide my wings more comfortably than locking them against my back by sheer force of willpower and muscle control, for a black leather duster I have tailored myself to fit my odd frame and dimensions without any visual clues as to my all-too-physical differences.

I walked out of the theatre without being harassed, as I most usually am by the standard guards to keep the riffraff out and protect the those performing within, made possible by the false front I presented that I had an actual purpose and reason for being there at the theatre other than my true reason of hiding and living in its dark and dusty shadows. I tested the air with my surprisingly sensitive nasal cavities—surprising, you could say, because I have no actual nose or real nostrils, just a black, gaping hole that serves as my nasal orifice. The air was rich with scents of many different origins. Prominent were the stench of vehicle exhaust and the reek of other smells of this city's streets, so prominent were they that they almost made vomit from their odor. But in the background, there was an almost spicy smell, tantalizing and entrancing in my current state of hunger—it was a scent of food. Following the enticing aroma, I came upon a Thai restaurant, and ordered a rather satisfyingly spicy noodle dish, paying for my dinner with my "pick pocketed" retainer money. Having easily picked up a conversation with the restaurant's owners in their native tongue, I learned of some excellent small grocers and shops to find satisfying food to fit my tastes that are reasonably cheap, open late, and would not ask questions about a mask, the origins of the money, or why so late in the evening. I also got the impression that they knew some relatively cheap, no-questions-asked, high quality apartments for rent nearby. I told them I would check them out and they replied that they would gladly open their doors for me if I needed a place to stay, as they assumed I was either a highly educated, but eccentric, immigrant or exchange student. Having become satisfied physically and intellectually, I left and visited several of those shops they mentioned and other ethnic markets, stocking up on essentials and other goods.

When I came back to the theatre, I entered using a little-used entrance that was not so well guarded as the other backstage entrances. I then made my way to my main "nest" and I have been here since, trying to find some measure of rest for my weary body and mind.


	11. 11: Conversations

"There is someone living here—in this theater! I swear to God it's true!"

Hidden in the shadows of a passage behind the walls that I discovered when I first came here, I listen to their conversation. I recognize the voice that just spoke as that of a young man who has an annoying tendency to stick his nose where it does not belong. His name is Joe Macker, and while he is still a student at a local dramatic college, works occasionally as backstage help and as a scenery painter. Underneath my mask my thin lips form a nasty grimace. It's too bad that no one can see behind this mask—it would surely win any costume or make-up contest; or at least frighten the nosier people to death! Oh, how I would _love_ to see these two's reactions… Would they run away screaming as a little girl, or faint away with shock? Sometime, before I am forced to leave this place—an eventuality that I know _will_ come to pass—I _must_ experience their reactions to my true face, and not this mask I wear.

_How does he know I am here?_ I ask myself silently. I must remain silent, no matter how much my mind screams out to expose my presence to anyone that will listen ad care. After all, I can still be considered a teenager in some respects, and in some aspects of my mind and body, I may always be at that level—or even less—due to lack of social interaction when I was growing up. But there are more pressing matters at hand, such as the conversation upon which I am eavesdropping currently. The young man, Joe, that's his name, I shall have to deal with him soon, or I'll risk being caught again and imprisoned. And I know what imprisonment means: Once again, I'd be displayed for all to see or hidden away for the rest of my life, either way I'd spend the rest of my life in a cage—and I have simply had enough of cages to last a lifetime, to last several lifetimes, in fact.

"You have got to be kidding me, Joe," says the lanky, sandy-blonde thirty-year-old. He can barely contain his mirth. He's worked here for several years and has never heard of any ghost—except for the one that supposedly haunts the downstairs public restroom, although he suspects it's either faulty plumbing or some prankster. Joe is, after all, well known for his "stories" and wild imagination that he often employs to gain any attention that he can garner. The older man just dismisses this latest bit of shit as one of Joe's tales. When he speaks again, he can barely keep a note of humor from his voice. "Someone in this theater? Have you got a hold of some _cannabis_ that you haven't told your old pal about?"

Joe looks perturbed, if one could say that boyish face could ever look like that, by the older male's comments. "No, man, you know I ain't touched no Mary Jane since that time I was in high school! One's got to be sharp to work backstage nowadays and keep their job; you ought to know that! Besides, I've seen it!"

"Seen what, Joe? Little green men again?" the man laughs a bit drunkenly.

"A zombie! A real, honest to God reanimated corpse walking around and haunting this building! I really did see it! And I'm not the only one who has… A couple of the actors and actresses that work here have seen it, too. Others have merely had small, odd things happen to them or the areas around them. And then there are the _accidents_…"

Behind the wall, the corpse-like "angel", Erik, winces. He thinks to himself, _Have I really been that damn obvious or careless?_ He begins to wonder whether or not he should leave again… And, although it is painful for him, seeing this is his first chance of making his own choices, rules, and having more freedom than he ever had in his life, he knows that he really must move on. People are becoming suspicious and aware of his presence, and if it continues much longer, he knows that he _will_ be caught.

"Well, what does 'it' look like? And is it male or female? 'Cause if it's a 'she', she might be hot, and I may just have to cool her off… Well? Inquiring minds want to know…" the blonde encourages Joe. The younger adult smacks the blonde upside the head. "What was that for?" He whines as he rubs his head.

"That was for your constant worrying over which babe you're going to bed next… I'll tell you what the zombie looks like, all right, and if you can't handle it, I told you so. The zombie, in the first place is male, I think, so unless you are bisexual, or a necrophiliac, I highly doubt you'd take this creature to bed. He wears all black, and his clothes hang off of his limbs and frame as though he is just a walking pile of bones! His face is too horrible to even mention! It appears to be rotting, dead… No, it is worse than that—his head resembles a skull! He does have hair, but it is long, black as a raven's wing, and hangs in long strands over that skull! The skin that is there is tightly stretched across the bones, like the original Mummy, but it is yellow, an awful, sickly yellow—like that of old, yellowed newspapers… He has a great black hole for a nose, as what there is of it is so little that a person looking at his profile cannot see it! Where his eyes are—there are _black pits_ where they _should_ be, and one can see them only in the dark, like cat's eyes or twin candle flames…"

Erik winces. When did anyone catch him in his ghoulish glory? He moves on already planning his next series of attempts to keep the rumor mill in check. _After all, _Erik thinks to himself, _it would not do for someone to catch on to my presence and therefore become too curious for their own good…_

"Suppose you are right, Joe," the older man starts. "Suppose those words you said were true? What would that mean? Who could we tell without people thinking we're crazy? I mean, doesn't your story sound ridiculous to yourself? What if this ghoul—or zombie, as you termed him—got wind of the fact that we know the truth, or even just more than we should? To what limit might the creature go to suppress the truth about himself? It might be possible that he would take out his anger on us! He might even kill us!"

Thinking back on those two stagehands' conversation, I realize how close I actually am coming to being found out, so to speak. No one should ever know I was here if ever I leave this place. It is important to my safety and me. Thinking on that, I push all thoughts but those necessary for survival out of my mind as I hole up again for the night in one of my "nests". I know exactly how to stop them from spreading the truth. Yes, I am going to kill them. No, it doesn't bother me in the least. Anyways, I shall make it look like a suicide from unrequited love… _Heh heh he…_


	12. 12: Fleeing

Gathering my meager belongings from my many hidden "nests", I prepare to leave again. My body—and my mind—wants to rebel, that is, to rebel against my decision and instincts. However, my instincts tell me I must leave at once, and if not now, as soon as possible, for the sake of my own safety. The less people that know about my existence, the longer I will live. Therefore, I have to—no, _need_ to—get rid of those two bumbling idiots before I leave. I know I must leave _no witnesses_ alive to tell my tale or tell of my planned deed. I find my "stolen" length of cord from this theater, I fashion a form of _lasso_ out of the piece. A _Punjab lasso_—able to kill from a distance and all the while remaining hidden from view, that is the perfect weapon to use. Underneath the black mask, which, if I haven't mentioned before, I also stole—but from the theater's costume department this time, along with much of my new clothes, I grin. If I didn't have a mask on, the sight of it would seem crooked, menacing, and quite gruesome—a death's head come alive and animated. Not a very pretty sight, I might add.

Making sure my wings are safely and securely held tight wrapped around my side and back from my shoulders down—so that no one knows they are there—I set off to find the two rumormongers. He probably doesn't even know what or who's coming for them. They will not live long once I find them. The one called Joe in particular will not live to see sunset tonight if I can help it. The other, he didn't really believe Joe, so, if I run into him first, I'll kill him; if not, I won't bother. After this, when it is dark, if it is not already dark by then, say about five in the afternoon or thirty minutes later, I shall take off and head west towards the great mountains and away from the major cities of this, the east coast of America. Though I was technically born in rural France, shortly after my birth I was transported to a facility in Quebec, where I was tortured for their "testing". So technically, I have no country of origin and feel no sense of patriotism to any country as everything was ripped away from me at birth.

I soon find "Joe", but alas, I have not found his comrade. He is once again backstage, as one can usually find him. After all, where else would one expect to find a stagehand-slash-sceneshifter? You obviously would not find them out front or in the dressing rooms—unless he was an insufferable little pervert, now would you? I didn't think so. I tail him silently from the shadows overhead.

He is alone now, off in a darker corner of the stage with a hammer and some nails. If I am _really_ going to do this, I should do the hideous, yet humane, deed before he starts hammering. Once he starts to hammer, it would be quite suspicious if his hammering suddenly stopped for no apparent reason. A little voice in the back of my mind and thoughts agrees with this idea.

Bracing myself, I carefully and quickly throw the _lasso_ down and loop it around his neck. With a sharp yank, the noose tightens and I can hear his neck audibly snap in the strangely quiet air.

Making sure no one else is around; I carefully lower myself to the ground floor. I quickly loosen the knot and slip the rope off his neck and store it in a pocket of my "modified" duster. I hear footsteps approaching and I know I need to get out of there right away. I tense my powerful leg muscles and resist the urge to spread my wings. I start to run, instinctively gaining speed and momentum, finally launching myself into the air like a track and field star at the long jump, the high jump, or even the pole vault—without the pole. I soar through the air and at the summit of my leap I grab a beam and use my momentum to propel and swing my body up and onto the narrow beam. I quickly regain my balance and make my way out of sight of those approaching below.

As they come upon the deceased's body, one of them screams—a woman, probably a girlfriend of one of the actors or stagehands that was originally brought back here to have a make-out session. A _very_ familiar woman's voice it is that made that scream. I leap from the beam to a narrow rail and from there to the iron catwalk that the rail belongs to. I take off at a dead run towards my "nest" with my pre-prepared possessions. I must leave now, while I can. Many people surely heard that scream, including the security personnel of all people. I need to _get out_. It is dark enough now, as far as I can tell. I stop momentarily when I reach the "nest", but only long enough to gear up and prepare for my long flight ahead of me.

I burst forth onto the roof and finally unfurl my wings that have been aching and longing to be used. My black wings, in shape, are more fit for that of a tern than the raven of which they resemble in color. They measure at least sixteen feet across from wingtip to wingtip, but may be more now, seeing as I have grown since the lab technicians last forced their measurements upon me. Hard to believe I can hide them along the sides of my body as well as I can, isn't it? Almost impossible, I'd say. But it merely makes my all-too-thin body seem more normal, at least in my torso. For my chest has, like many birds, a keel bone, or in other words, a built-up, deepened, fused, and lengthened sternum, with much lean, stringy muscle attached to it. This is perhaps the most muscular, least skeletal area on my whole body besides my wings. Despite this, my ribs still do show through like a dried up cadaver.

I run to the edge of the roof and pitch myself over the edge. I enjoy the feeling of freefall for a bit before I start to ascend into the darkened sky with powerful downward strokes of my coal-black feathered wings. My sensitive hearing picks up a few gasps and even a few thuds as some people faint. Behind my blank black mask I grin. I always was one for morbid attention… What a sight I must prove to be! A sickly laugh escapes my horrid lips behind my mask. A mask not just to protect the public, but also to protect myself from the truth of my appearance and the hatred and fear which it only fuels, burning my psyche and destroying all hope of humanity, hope, and love for myself.

I am dead tired and most definitely hungry. Not something that I've felt like this since I last ran from that lab in Canada. I have no citizenship, I haven't any country—I was never given a birth certificate when I was born. Although I was born alive—though I looked quite dead and not quite human even then, as I have always been a hybrid—my real mother was told that I was stillborn. I dearly wish I could meet her. I wonder what she would think of her son. Is she still alive? Or is she dead? Would she accept her son looking as I do? Looking like a long-dead corpse of an angel? Somehow, I highly doubt that she would ever accept me as her son if we were ever to meet. And I highly doubt that such an event would ever occur.

I _need_ to find a place to rest. I've been following highways and rivers, as well as the path of the sun in the sky, heading ever westward—where to, I'm not sure. Perhaps I'll end my journey in the wilds of the Rockies…

Scanning the ground below me to find a suitable landing area that is free of people at the moment, I see a pavilion of sorts in the middle of a park with animals. What do the Americans call these places again? Oh, yes, I almost forgot—zoos. I aim for the zoo just as the sun rises once again for another day. I am dead tired, and my first instinct is to curl up in a ball and sleep the day away.

It's easy to find a nice, sturdy tree and climb its trunk, as there are many good-sized trees in this animal park. I settle in, my whole body aching after my nonstop, two day flight from New York, in the crook of one of the spreading branches of this nice tree. I dig out a stolen blanket and wrap it around my sweating body. _Am I feverish?_ I ponder inside my head. I fall asleep quickly.

The figure in the tree remained unaware of the dawning day and its growing activity. First, the keepers arrived to make their morning rounds, which is when the sleeping hybrid was first spotted. Attempts were made to wake it up, which is when they discovered its wings. Taking no chances, they gave the sleeping creature a shot of a mild tranquilizer.

Carefully and gently, they removed him from the branches. He was so deeply asleep that he never even stirred once. They took him to the resident zoologist, who, upon examination, was puzzled. The creature _looked_ human, with the exception of his double-jointed shoulders, his wings, the vestigial feathers on his rail-thin arms and legs, and his corpse-like visage.

One of the assistants did remember the sensational news of the bird-kids case in Colorado, and told the chief zoologist about the court custody case. He suggested that they give a call to Frannie and Kit, to see if they had room for one more at their place and in their hearts. Soon as an arrangement was made, they woke up the unconscious teen.

I wake to the harsh glare of indoor lights, particularly those of medical establishments. Immediately I panic, thinking I had been caught and brought back to the Institute I had escaped from. But there are no bars. This surprises me and my panic starts to subside. My hands tentatively explore my face, and find not my smooth mask, but the harshness of my sickening visage. My heart thunders inside my chest.

"Where's my mask?" I screech, in even more of a panic than I was previously upon waking up here. I noticed, for the first time that I was cold—they had removed my clothes—except my underwear, which, for those of you curious, are boxers. _I guess they have some decency after all…_ I muse.

A kindly, fatherly-looking man in a white coat entered the room. Despite his appearance, my nerves are on edge and I can only feel apprehension towards the medical figure. How am I to know that he is not in league with the Institute back in Canada or even some colleague institution like the Institute? He is, after all, a doctor in a white lab coat. Although why he would be in a zoo is beyond me.

"It's okay," he tries to reassure me but only sets me further on edge.

"Liar," I snarl, my odd-looking lips curling in disgust.

"No, don't be afraid." I growl, low and dangerously, yet loud enough to be heard by _him_, towards the doctor. "I am only a zoologist. Not a doctor as you probably are used to," he states. My whole body relaxes with relief that he is not one of _those_ scientists. I wonder what he wants with me and why he is even interested in me, though…

The poor creature was visibly shaken when the esteemed zoologist stepped into the room, which is where he had been brought after being found and examined, once it had awakened. Although on edge at first, the wild animal doctor gradually gained the hybrid's trust after introducing himself as merely a zoologist. Why he was on edge before that may never be known, especially not to those present, but some theories had been assured in their minds after his introduction.

"My name is Dr. Zhbevik. What is yours, young man?" The man in the white coat asks.

"Erik. Erik…_Daemon_…" the seated, recently named teen mutters in a level that could be said to be under his breath. The creature has the most beautiful the good doctor has ever heard. In his mind he thinks that his voice more than makes up for his physical ugliness. It is almost as if he is a siren sprung to life from ancient Greek myth.

"Well, Mr. Daemon, we have found someone willing to take you in and feed you without expecting anything in return. Don't worry, they know about your special circumstances—especially s they have already taken in and bonded with several other children much like you. I am taking you to meet them in Colorado as we have not been able to find much about your past or biological family."

Erik turns his deep-set golden eyes towards the doctor and says simply: "I'm hungry."


	13. 13: Arrival

As I step off the private plane in Colorado, a smell I thought I would never get to smell again assaults what there is of my mostly lacking nose. That smell is of fresh, unadulterated clean air and old trees. I saw them as we flew in that plane I had just exited, all the while wanting and wishing to be outside of the aircraft, enjoying the rush of air against my skin and through my hair and feathers. There is nothing that could ever compare to that feeling, and that is the absolute truth.

As I walk out into the sun, my heart races faster than normal and I squint my eyes against the bright light. I don't like such bright light normally, and especially after a sudden change from subdued light or even darkness, as it hurts my night-sensitive eyes. There are many people standing there, on the small landing strip. I quickly reach up to see if my mask is on, covering the horrors of my face. It is on, thank God. But why are all these people here? Are they all for me? Do they love me? That couldn't possibly be true, especially after seeing my face and body… But there they are standing there! Some are holding signs, though. _Hateful_ signs, if you want to be exact. Signs that say I'm a product of the Devil, of Hell. How can this be true? I was born like a regular person, therefore, I am no Hell spawn. I am Erik, and that is all I am. Erik is Erik. He is his own self—and no one—or no thing else.

I tower over most of the people here already, and I hate it when people look _down_ at me, even though it is obvious they have to look upwards to see me most of the time. A car has pulled up behind the crowd and now a couple are climbing out of the jeep-like vehicle. _Who are they?_ I wonder to myself inside my head.

The crowd, meanwhile, was becoming more and more unruly. As Kit and Frannie step out of their vehicle, the local police do their best to beat back the crowds so that a path could be made and the two adults could get through safely.

Kit was wearing shades, which seems to be highly appropriate given the brightness of the sun today, but he seemed to be scaring the raven-haired youth. He takes off the gasses revealing sharp, but gentle eyes that you just know have seen weird and miraculous things in his lifetime.

"You're Erik, aren't you?" he asks the youth who is just a tiny bit shorter than him. He nods. "Not very talkative, are you?"

Erik shakes his head no. He doesn't want to talk. Talking can get oneself killed, he believes. That and all too often it is seen as a sign of weakness. And Erik will not allow any weaknesses to show. However he allowed Kit to take him by the hand, even ignoring his obvious flinch at his icy hands. With Kit on one side and Fran on the other, they walked towards the car. Of all the people there, Erik was the one who was most unsure.

As soon as the car stops I want out. I am quite heavily carsick, as they say. Turbulence in the air aloft, sudden dives and rolls? Are you kidding me? Give me that any day. That doesn't bother me at all. Put me in a car and drive along—especially up twisting mountain roads—_that_ will make me lose my lunch. Give me the freedom of the air any day. In fact, I'd prefer it to riding in another vehicle.

As soon as Frannie—as I learned she liked to be called—opens the door by my seat, I am out of that infernal device. Collapsing to the ground, I heave the contents of my stomach, what little there is, onto the ground. I look up and silently apologize with my pleading eyes.

"I'm sorry," I whisper before I fall over in a faint.

The veterinarian saw what was coming and quickly grabbed him. She called over to Kit and together they carried him inside.

"Max?" She called out into the house.

A young adult, maybe a year or two younger than Erik—about sixteen or seventeen, with iridescent white feathered wings jointed at her arms, much like Erik's wings are, appears in the living room. She looks surprisingly wise and a lot like an adult for her age, despite her obvious complete lack of breasts.

"Who is he?" She asks.

"His name, I've been told, is Erik. I don't think he was given a family name, he probably gave himself one: Daemon. Why he chose that name, I am not sure, but it may be related with the reason he wear's a mask," Kit says to max. "Go get some towels, along with a glass and a bowl filled with water. He's probably dehydrated and fatigued. Perhaps even sick."

She quickly moves to obey the ex-FBI agent. Almost as soon as she leaves, the twins, Peter and Wendy, came into the room.

"Who is that?" Peter asks.

"He's the newest addition to our family. His name is Erik. Be careful with him, he's traveled a long ways and looks very fragile. I don't know exactly what he's been through so far in his life, so he may be somewhat wild at first."

I feel a cool wetness whispering against my parched lips. I greedily swallow the liquid as it is pressed to my lips. It could be drugged or poisoned for all I seem to care. I'm thirsty, and that's all I care about. I _must_ slake my thirst.

My eyelids flutter open. Up until then I had not even realized that my eyes were closed, I just thought it was night once again. I must have really been out of it, though, to not even notice what has happened sine I arrived.

Softer light greets my harrowed eyes. I try to sit up, but am hit by a wave of new dizziness. I groan. I hate feeling like this, this helplessness and inability to support my own self. I however can lift my head, and also my shoulders a little more. I feel someone place a few pillows behind my back and head.

"Thank you," I manage to squeak.

"You're welcome," rings a voice that I have not heard before. It is a girl's voice, and is followed by an even more feminine giggle. Oh, good God! Don't tell me I'm surrounded by women! I can feel my sallow cheeks blush warmly.

"You need not wear that mask when you are around here," suggests a familiar voice—Frannie. She has shown me nothing but generosity, so her comment doesn't incite my paranoia and anger. "Of course, if you don't feel comfortable without it, that's okay, too."

I look around the room. Besides Frannie and Kit whom I had already met, there were also some kids there. A girl with white, shimmering feathered wings jointed at her arms, much like mine and the other kids, who seems also to be not much younger than myself. There is a tale of sorrow written in their eyes. Then there is a pair of twins and a young boy who looked a lot like the older girl. I feel strongly attached already to not only Fran and Kit, but also the oldest of the winged children. Even though I am quite comfortable in their presence, I am not quite sure that I really want to remove my mask. I am very, _very_ hungry, though. My stomach growls spontaneously, surprising me out of my self-induced stupor.

The prone figure on the couch looks up at the crowd around him, silently both apologizing for such a bodily function and pleading to be heard and fed. He was still frightened of his surroundings, but was managing to hold it inside for the most part. Small shudders ran up and down his spine. He was hungry, and he knew that he needed to eat desperately. However, he dislikes eating with his mask on—even this mask, which does not cover his lower lip and chin. It gets in the way, he would say if asked about why he dislikes eating with the covering.

Erik's hands shake nervously as he reaches behind his head to untie the black ribbon attached to his mask. His fingers slip several times and he fumbles with the knots. After several hushed and expectant minutes, he had worked the offending knot-work both loose and finally undone. Slowly, and even more nervous than before, Erik brings his hands to the mask. Long, skeletal digits grasp the stiffened, yet still soft, silk of the facial covering and slowly lift it away. He closes his eyes, relishing the feeling of cool, fresh air against his wan skin.

He is exhausted and he knows and feels it deeply. He knows he can't run or fly anymore, there is no use—and, though he'd be the last to admit it, no reason to, either. He is surprised when he doesn't hear any screams of fear or whimpers of shock. He opens his eyes and sees people looking at him again. But not out of fear or morbid curiosity. They were looking at him without pity and hate. In fact, he could say pretty confidently that they were looking at him with awe, wonder, and even that which he has sough for so long—to the point of giving up on ever being shown it: love. Yes, that simple, yet complex emotion, love. The emotion that we all take for granted was something he had always been missing and longing for.

Why weren't they screaming? Why aren't they afraid? I look like Death incarnate! For pity's sake, they should at least be disgusted. I wonder what they themselves had seen that would endear them to such sights as I present with my horridly ugly face?

"I'm hungry. Do you have anything Asian? Or is there any spaghetti? I _could_ go for some of that, I guess," I comment.

"Kit, go open a can of Chef Boyardee and put it on the stove. On second thought, put it in a bowl and 'zap' it in the microwave. That would be faster and I highly doubt this guy wants to wait any longer for some food."

My stomach rumbles, informing me of my immediate and pressing need for food. I am so hungry that I am too weak to even sit up for a very long time. I am already becoming almost overwhelmingly dizzy and am about to pass out again. I had long ago vowed to myself that I would never allow myself to be so helpless ever again; and here I am! Absolutely helpless and weak! I cannot even take care of myself or my hunger on my own at the moment! I am becoming ever more angry at situation, my life, position, and myself. Unfortunately, these people who, so far, have done nothing but try to help me may bear the brunt of my vengeful anger. This saddens me. These people could be my allies. They already are not afraid of my sickening and horrific visage, so who's to say they would not, in time, come to love me eventually? There is hope as long as I am alive and still breathing. I must always remember that and never forget it.


End file.
